


Date Night

by Maur



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Date Night AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 19:10:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5882212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maur/pseuds/Maur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PK and Carey need to get out once in a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Date Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kajiba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kajiba/gifts).



First free evening in Sochi, PK's calender was hopping. Sid was going to be hanging out in the player's lounge and had made sure he'd spoken to everyone on the team to tell them he'd love to hang out. And that was tempting, but PK knew Sid would be holding court with half of Canada's winter sports, and he was angling for something more personal. 

On the other hand, JT was planning to go explore the village, and really, he didn't get enough Johnny-time during the season. Maybe PK owed it to him to liven up his evening.

Third hand, though, he'd run into Ovechkin earlier, who'd given him a paen to the beauties of Russia, solemn promises to crush him like a bug, and the name of a local restaurant. Then he'd winked, broadly. 

"Romantic, yeah? Maybe take your best boo."

PK had laughed it off, but - when he came to think of it, he couldn't actually remember when he and Carey had last gone on a _date_. Not a meal with the team, or grabbing food mid-errand, but a dress up and make eyes date. And maybe Russia wasn't the best place to get your gay flirt on, but there was no reason anyone would look twice at them. 

He got them a table booked, and went to unpack his best suit - and then put it away, and took out the one he was pretty sure was Carey's favourite, deep purple and a little bit shiny. Carey always looked deeply amused and fond when PK wore it, and that was better than even PK's favourite gold and brown plaid. 

He was eyeing himself in the mirror, wondering whether to dress it up with a grey silk tie and trilby, or down with an open collar and flat cap, when Carey came in.

"Looking good," Carey said, and ran his eyes down over PK in that lingering way that practically demanded PK preen a bit. "Thought you were coming to dinner with the team? Got a date?"

" _You've_ got a date, Cash Money, you and me are going to head into the city and get ourselves a nice dinner." PK flashed his widest smile, and Carey's mouth twitched.

"You don't think I have plans?" But he shrugged off his jacket, and went to dig in his suitcase for a towel. Team Canada's reds suited him, brought out the flush in his cheeks, but PK knew what he liked and that was a sharp-dressed man. Fortunately, Carey could rock a suit, too.

Even if he had appalling taste in belt buckles. Still, no man was perfect.

"I think you'll skip them for me," PK said, and was rewarded by the curve of Carey's soft pink mouth. "You know you can't resist all this."

"Maybe," Carey allowed, and bumped his hip against PK's when he went to shower.

PK began to hum to himself, and checked his List of Helpful Numbers, supplied by one conscientious Canadian captain, to find a cab company.

 

 

The restaurant looked exactly like he would have expected an Ovechkin recommendation to look; dazzlingly bright, full of sharp angles and shining surfaces. One wall looked like it was made of ice - _surely_ not real ice - and there were silvery green potted ferns crowding the foyer. Carey stopped to inspect one, and PK turned to the host, who was wearing a suit of a light grey that stopped just short of being reflective.

"Subban," he said. "Table for two?"

The host - looked at him, down and up. PK raised his chin, and smiled. Everyone he could see in the restaurant was white.

There was a pause, one that lengthened interminably as the host ran his finger down the page of his book. 

"I'm sorry, sir," the host said. He wore his hair plastered close against his skull, a style PK had never liked on anyone. "We don't seem to have your name here. We're very busy tonight; perhaps you'd like to try again another day?"

"I called three hours ago," PK said evenly. Carey was at his shoulder now, head cocked, a line between his brows. "Subban. Can you check again, please?"

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, not even glancing down. "We don't have any record of your reservation."

"And I'm guessing you don't have any tables available, right?" PK said, and the host inclined his head, just a fraction. PK didn't move, and the man's lips tightened a little.

"If you'd like to wait in the bar, I can let you know if a table opens up," and he leaned to the side and smiled at the people behind them.

PK stomped towards the bar because fuck them, anyway, he needed a drink. The bartender refused to catch his eye, though, and PK took a deep breath. Maybe he should bring up Ovechkin's name, but he didn't want to. He didn't want to leave, and he didn't really want to stay, and his mood had collapsed like a souffle. Carey put his back to the bar, and stared past PK, out at the jagged pale room.

"I called them," PK said, and Carey nodded. It wasn't like PK needed to impress him, and in the grand scheme of things one failed date was nothing. But - "Fuck. Sorry. I just wanted..."

"Not your fault," Carey said. "Look, it's okay. We'll go somewhere else. We'll tell everyone to avoid it. We'll leave a really scathing review on Yelp."

"Yeah," PK said, and looked away from Carey's understanding eyes. There was a waitress at the far end of the bar, calling out _Denisov!_ like she'd called it out a bunch of times. She was already half-turned back towards the tables, as she called out one more time. "Or not. Excuse me! Denisov! We're right here."

He marched up the bar, and beamed at her. She looked a little taken aback, but just greeted them in stilted English, and showed them to a table.

Carey was grinning, all dimples and sunshine, and PK preened under his amused gaze. 

"I know how to show you a good time," he said, and Carey laughed out loud.

"You're really something, Subban. Let's hope the food is worth it," he said, and opened the menu. The prices were also exactly what you'd expect a Russian millionaire to recommend, but hey, a guy like Carey deserved to be treated right and PK was lucky enough to be able to do just that. 

"Oh, damn, this is good," PK said thirty minutes later. "Lemme try yours." He stole a forkful of slow-roasted lamb so tender it fell right off the bone, and Carey speared one of his scallops in retaliation. They both made appreciative noises and exchanged smiles before diving back in to their own dishes. It was honestly a struggle not to just scarf it down like a post-game meal, but PK was a sophisticated man and knew how to appreciate the good things in life, so he forced himself to savour each bite. 

He was just dabbing up the last of the sauce with a bread roll when two large men approached their table.

"Denisov?" one of them said, and PK could almost hear the finger quotes. Busted. He added something else, in Russian.

"English only, buddy, I'm sorry," PK said, and got a glower. "Okay, come on, we're here now, so - "

"Please get up," said the one who was built more like a running back. His accent rolled his words together, so it took a moment for PK to untangle them. "We don't want a scene, do we? Let's just leave quietly." Carey arched an eyebrow at PK, who sighed and gave up. What the hell, it was a funny story to tell the guys at breakfast. Scathing review on Yelp, though, for sure.

Carey unfolded, and stepped right into the space of the shorter, squatter one, who took a step back and then looked pissed about it. Carey's expression didn't so much as flicker, but he looked over at PK, who grinned. "Don't break a nail, Pricey, we've got stuff to do this week."

Roughed up by a restaurant's bouncers would be the most embarrassing way to get injured, so he didn't resist the shove at his shoulder. They were herded through a side door and out into an alley, which looked much like alleys everywhere and was no place for a suit like PK's. At least he hadn't handed his hat over to anyone.

"You're kidding me," he said, setting said hat on his head. "All right, fine, we'll leave, but - hey!" In his defence, the last thing he'd expected was for the guy to snatch his wallet. He reached to grab it back, but - 

Gun. Okay. The squat guy had a gun on Carey, and Carey was standing very still as his phone and wallet were taken away from him. Fuck, was this sabotage? Wouldn't they take out Sid or something if they were after - maybe they _were_ after Sid, fuck. But it's not like they needed to kill them, just wound them, so if they were co-operative, maybe they'd get out alive and Bobby Lu would still get them a gold medal. Canada's B team could still contend, PK was sure, so - 

"Canadians," Running Back said, thoughtful. "So these are your real names?"

"Of course, they are," PK said. "Look, man, there's no need for the gun - "

"Shut the fuck up. Now, I think you know what we're here for."

"Hockey?" PK said, unsure, and the gun clicked. "Fuck, what is it, what do you want?"

"The flash drive, Mr Denisov."

"The flash drive," PK parroted. "Okay, buddy, what flash drive - "

"Don't fucking start," he snarled, and oh good, another gun. "You should know better than to steal from Lebedev."

"Okay, man, okay, we are not actually - look, this was not our reservation. We took it, but it wasn't ours, and we're actually professional hockey players, here for - "

"Give us the _fucking_ flash drive," and the gun was practically up his nose, now. PK's heart was sinking through his chest, and he kept his voice as calm as possible.

"Guys, guys, just listen to us - "

"It's not here," Carey said, and PK cast him a sideways look. He looked bleached out under the sodium lights, eyes hollowed out. "We didn't bring it. We hid it."

"...right," PK agreed. "We hid it."

"Where did you hide it?"

Carey paused, swallowing, and PK said "Down by the docks," because surely there had to be people around the docks. Port authorities, and things. "Where they, uh, where they moor the boats, you know, there's a... an equipment shed, lots of coming and going, so we - hid it there." He put on his best, sincere, injured, talking-to-referees face. It didn't usually work great, but it seemed to pass muster, because Running Back shoved at his shoulder and gestured with the gun.

There was a nondescript, muddy car at the entrance to the alley, and they got meekly into the back of it.

"What the fuck," PK said softly, and Carey shrugged. Only the tightness of his jaw betrayed that anything was up. The two Russians got into the front, and the car started. At least there were no longer any guns being actively pointed at them.

"He had a gun in your face, PK, sue me."

"That's real sweet." PK tried the door. It was locked, and oh, it was gun-pointing time again. "It's cool. We're cool." He put his hands in his lap, and gave Carey a smile that was probably more sickly than reassuring.

 

The docks were depressingly quiet. PK had been under the impression docks were busy all night, but honestly, he may have gotten that impression from Indiana Jones. At least there were sheds. He picked a nice big one, in the hope it would have things to hide behind, or something.

Jesus Christ, he didn't want to die on a dock in Russia for stealing a restaurant reservation. Talk about your stupid death. The only consolation was just how much it would piss off Putin.

Not much of a consolation, he thought. The squat one tried the door, and turned to them expectantly.

"Well, you'll have to break in," Carey said, sounding almost bored. "We don't have the key with us." 

Shooting out locks was not just a movie thing, seemed like. The crack of the gun was ridiculously loud. PK could only hope _someone_ was pressing an alarm button.

"Like a fucking Columbus goal," he said, dry mouthed. Carey just walked towards the door.

It was pitch-dark inside. PK looked at Carey, whose silhouette tilted his head towards a corner, where a thin stream of light fell through a narrow window. They had to stall, he supposed. So. 

"Okay, guy's, it's - fuck, it's dark, can we get a light? No? Fuck, okay, it was, uh, lemme see." He strolled towards the window, sweat trickling down his spine. "Okay, yeah." A floorboard creaked warningly, and he stopped, and rocked his weight. It creaked again. "Yeah, this is the one, guys, you got a chisel or something? We'll need to pry it up."

"Under there?" Running Back said, and then swore in Russian. "Fine." More Russian, and the squat guy went rummaging around, leaving one guy with a gun covering them. PK thought about rushing him, but Carey had his thumbs tucked into his belt loops, weight resting on one hip. When PK glanced at him, he stood calm and still, only the slightest incline of his head.

Fuck, PK hoped he wasn't the one supposed to be coming up with a plan. He got down on his knees and began to poke at the floorboard, just to show he was trying.

"We could maybe get it out with a claw hammer," he offered, testing the edges. It felt well nailed down. "You got a flashlight or something? We put it back pretty solid, heh. Didn't want it to look out of place."

The squat one returned with mallet and chisel, and his gun tucked away. He gestured to PK, and PK grabbed his hand and guided it to the board. "This one here," he said, pressing the guy's fingers round it. "It's wedged in pretty tight." Was Carey moving? The other guy was leaning in a bit, watching, as the chisel went in and the guy lifted the hammer.

There were two crunches at once, and the gunman went down, revealing Carey wielding an oar like a goalie paddle. Another crunch and a curse, and the second one was down and PK took off like a sprinter, Carey on his tail.

"Where are we going?" PK yelped as Carey caught up. They turned as one towards the main boulevard, and then there was an alarming crack behind them and PK checked Carey into cover, almost tumbling him over. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. C'mon."

There were more gunshots, but they scurried close to the ground in deep shadow behind a row of sheds. PK's brain was sure the shots weren't even close, but his heart squeezed with every one, until his chest ached. They vaulted a wall, and crossed a road, and slipped down an alley, and suddenly they were on a busy neon street surrounded by chatter.

"Fuck," Carey said, and leaned against PK. If they were in Canada, PK would grab his hand, or hug him, but it had already been enough of a fucking day without attracting any asshole attention. "We gotta find a police station, PK."

"Right, right," PK said, wincing, because they were going to catch hell from management. But fuck it. They were alive and safe.

 

"Yeah, we kind of took someone's table," PK explained. The police officer blinked at him. 

"You took a table?" 

"Their reservation," he corrected himself, and she nodded and made a note. "Right, yeah, and these guys came up, and we thought, hey, we're getting thrown out, okay, we'll just go with it, but they had guns, see? And they said they were from Lebedev, and I don't know if that means anything - " he paused. It very clearly meant something; she was suddenly much more focused on him.

"PK," Carey said, and PK nodded. 

"Yeah, Carey, I'm getting there. So - "

" _PK_ ," Carey said, and his heel dug into PK's ankle. PK looked at him, his fixed stare, and followed the line of his eyes. There was a coffee machine, and there were a few guys shooting the shit around it, a normal kind of scene, Russian cops drank coffee just like - 

The short one turned, letting PK see his face. It was the squat one, and now he knew what he was looking at, the back next to him clearly belonged to Running Back.

"You know what," PK said, and his voice came out like a croak. "You know, I think we're kind of wasting your time, right, this isn't a big deal - "

"Mr Subban," she said. "You said these men worked for Lebedev - "

"Did I? I don't think - I might have misheard it, you know, it was stressful, I think we should probably just - go, okay, we'll give you a call - "

"Sit," she barked, and PK dropped back into his chair. If policing didn't work out for her, she could probably try coaching. "Lebedev is not a name to use lightly, Mr Subban. If you have information - "

A guy knocked on her filing cabinet, and she swivelled her chair to glare. There was an exchange in Russian, and then she turned back to them. "Wait there. I'll be one minute."

The second she was out of sight they fled in the opposite direction.

 

"Let's just get a cab back," Carey said. "We'll just have to tell management."

"Tell them what, Cares? We managed to get on the radar of a mob boss? Fuck." PK rubbed his mouth. "Fuck, they've got our Olympic passes, they can get into the village. What if they come after us there? You saw what that lady thought. Lebedev, whoever the fuck he is - "

"Probably the mob," Carey said, grimly. "Look, if we stay in the village the whole time - no one's going to risk fucking up the Olympics, right? The world is watching."

"I don't know." PK pulled his hands over his face. "Hey, though. I know who'll know."

"What?" Carey frowned at him. "PK, what - "

PK dug out the List of Helpful Numbers Sid had given him earlier, which had a cellphone number at the top, carefully underlined with _SC_ next to it. "You got some loose change? I know you're carrying coins in that jacket, C-note, it ruins the hang of the pockets."

 

"You want me to give you Ovechkin's number?" Sid said, sounding suspicious. "Do I want to know why?"

"You really don't," PK said. "Please, Sid, I wouldn't ask - "

"Hey, it's cool," Sid said, voice turning soothing. PK must be sounded more stressed than he'd thought. "I'll get you the number. Look, you know you can tell me if something's up, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, I just - uh, I need a little local advice? Ovi and I are tight, it's cool, I've just - my phone's, uh, it's not - working well."

"It took me forever to get mine up and running," Sid agreed, absently. "Okay, Ovi's gone out to dinner in town, so he won't - "

"In Sochi?" PK says. "We're in Sochi - "

"He's at some kind of meetup with local politicians, so he might not answer," Sid warned. "He's at - hang on, he gave me a card for it - "

Of _course_ he was at the restaurant they'd just left. PK should have dropped his name in the first place instead of being a stubborn ass. He sighed, and made a note of Ovi's number. 

"You're a doll, Sid, I'm gonna kiss you on the mouth tomorrow," he said quickly, and hung up before Sid could object. "Back to the restaurant, hope they're not assholes."

"Hope they don't ask us to pay our bill," Carey said, and that, at least, was worth a laugh.

It was a different host, thank God, who looked down his nose about the same amount but had spiked hair. He let Carey scribble out a quick note and bore it off held between his fingertips, like it might be contagious.

"Hey, keep a lookout," PK said, and reached for the reservation book, all bound leather and fancy. "Fuck. What does Denisov look like in Cyrillic? A D is like a fucked up A, right?"

"And a V looks like a B," Carey agreed, scanning the place. "What are you looking for?"

"Got it. Got their number." PK scribbled it out on a napkin, and put the book back into place. "Maybe we can call them or something?" Carey gave him a side-eye. "What? What?"

"They probably don't speak English."

"Ah, but the goons weren't surprised we spoke English, right!" He pointed at Carey. "Right?"

"...point," Carey conceded, the corners of his mouth turning up fractionally.

The maitre'd returned, looking fractionally less supercilious, and gestured for them to follow him, through a side door and into a palatial room where Ovechkin was holding court. 

"PK Subban!" he said expansively, getting up to embrace him and kiss his cheeks. "And Carey Price," and Carey got the same treatment. "You've come to have dinner with us!"

"Wow, wish we'd known that was on the table," Carey said, with sincerity so dry it sounded sarcastic. 

Kovalchuk was there, too, but that seemed to be it for hockey players. The rest were - who knew. Did Sid say a political thing? That sounded about right. There were a few autographed pucks scattered on the table, among a prodigious quantity of empty bottles. A group were putting on their coats, and Ovi turned to them for more cheek kissing and expansive gestures, then presented PK and Carey to them.

"Is head policeman," he said. "And this - uh, local judge? Anyway, very friendly, want to greet Russian team."

PK shook hands, and smiled, and fielded a few awkwardly phrased jokes about the coming tournament.

"You good timing," Ovi said as the door closed behind them. "Otherwise they drag me to club with them." 

"You love clubs," PK said, and Ovi grinned.

"Not when I play for gold. Besides, I am faithful engaged man now, and don't go to that kind of club." He winked, and PK shook his head, not quite able to laugh. "So what I do for my good friends PK and Pricey, hm?"

"Hypothetically, dude, what if we'd gotten mixed up with organised crime?" PK said, and Ovechkin burst out laughing. Then he stopped mid-guffaw. 

"Not laughing."

"Nope. You know the name Lebedev?"

Ovechkin's mouth twisted up, and he shook his head.

"You been here three days, Subban." All PK could do was shrug, and Ovechkin sighed. "Wait," he ordered, and circled the table, swooping in on a small man with dark hair and eyes. The man cocked his head to listen, and then looked at PK and Carey, eyes narrowed. He rose and came over to them, and Ovechkin stayed where he was, striking up conversation with the men around him.

"Lebedev?" he said, in a thin voice devoid of accent. PK shrugged.

"We - he thinks we have something of his. It's mistaken identity, but - "

"But hard to convince Lebedev's men. Yes. He's a dangerous man."

"Can we just stay in the village and forget it ever happened?" Carey said, and the man wiped his hand over his mouth.

"Lebedev will not have a problem getting into the Olympic village. How badly does he want this... item?"

"Two men with guns bad," PK said, and the man let one shoulder rise in a dismissive shrug. "Okay, see, we went to the police - " The man snorts. "Right, yeah, okay. That's great. Look, we have a phone number for the guys who are the real guys. I mean, the people they thought we were. Do you - know anyone, maybe with the police, or something, who can get us an address from that?"

"Give it to me," he said, and then he took it away and walked out into the passage. Ovechkin cocked an eyebrow at them, and PK gave him a thumbs up and a smile that felt weak.

"We're going to their home now?" Carey said, sounding deeply unimpressed. "And do what, fire pucks at them til they surrender?"

"Hope you've got a bulletproof glove," PK said, and it came out flat. "I'm open to better ideas."

They got an address. Ovechkin didn't speak to them again, but he tossed a glittering bundle to PK, who caught it instinctively.

"I was kind of hoping for more, to be honest," PK admitted as they made their way out again, past the silver ferns and the host's disapproving silence. "Isn't he buddies with Putin?"

"Hey, Vlad," Carey said. "The Canadians accidentally pissed off a mob boss, can you pop down and sort it out? Oh, you've got a bear to wrestle? Well - "

"Shut up, shut up," PK said. "Fuck. Okay. Is that Ovi's car?" 

"Why do you care?" 

"Because he gave me his car keys." 

 

It was hard not to feel pretty good when driving Ovi's car. That shit was _sweet_. And, more importantly, had GPS. It took him a few minutes to change the language, but then they were rolling. Carey was rooting in the glovebox.

"Find anything good?"

"Travel sweets."

"Hit me," PK said. "My mouth tastes of panic."

Carey fed him a sweet, and then took one for himself.

"I was hoping for a gun."

"I don't think Ovi's that kind of Russian."

"He's friends with Putin."

"Yeah, if he _wasn't_ friends with Putin he might need a gun."

"True." They rode in silence for a few blocks more. Carey shook his head. "Not sure we should do this, PK."

"Yeah. Okay, look. They sent a ransom note, right? They want Lebedev to know who they are. We just... tell them what's up, and they can contact him themselves, right? Problem solved, we fade out."

Carey tapped his fingers on the window for a bit. Then he nodded. "It makes sense. And it's better than being kidnapped out of the village, right?"

"Right. Or having our knees broken." They _needed_ their knees. This was their season, even after the Olympics.

After all that, there was no answer at the door. PK groaned, and let his head fall against the battered front door. "Fuck me. We're cursed." He tried a couple of the other bells, and got no response. "Carey - Carey?"

"There's a fire escape," Carey's voice floated out from a side street. PK hesitated, then followed.

"Babe, that's not a fire escape. That's an old ladder." Carey was testing his weight on it, though, and he started to climb. "Uh. Babe?"

"They're not in, so why don't we just search for the flash drive? Third floor?"

"Fuck," PK said, and waited until Carey had vanished through a window to follow.

The place was a rat's nest, smelling vaguely of cabbage and quite a lot of stale pizza. There was a laptop lying on the low table, and PK began to search around it while Carey tackled the shelves, piled high with DVD cases.

There was no sign of a flash drive. 

"Gonna check the kitchen drawers," he said, and Carey hummed distractedly. "Oh, it's nasty in here."

Unwashed dishes, overflowing garbage, and his feet stuck to the floor. PK eyed his manicure ruefully and began to rummage through the mess on the counter. He heard Carey coming back, and opened his mouth to report on the nothing he'd found.

"What the fuck?"

That was not Carey. PK turned just in time to duck a fist, attached to a tanned arm which led to narrow but muscular shoulders, and a scowling, square-jawed face surmounted by a Leafs baseball cap.

"Hey!" PK said, recognising the accent. "You're Canadian!"

"What the fuck?" the guy said again. "What the fuck are you doing in here?"

"Dave!" shrieked a woman's voice. It didn't sound panicky, though. More really, really excited. "Dave! Carey fucking Price is in our bedroom!"

 

"Look, I'm really sorry," Becca said, pouring Coke into paper cups. Her long glittery nails tapped nervously on bottle, cups, the sticky surface of the table. "If we'd had any idea we'd get you into trouble - "

"Seriously," Dave agreed. When not repelling burglars, he was the archetype of the clean-cut nice Canadian boy. Apart from the blackmailing. "I mean, I'm a Leafs fan myself, but all that aside when it's Olympic time, eh?"

"Phil Kessel's the enemy now," PK agreed, and raised his cup. "To Canada!"

"Canada!" Becca and Dave chorused, and sloshed their cups together. Becca beamed at them. If PK wasn't crazed with worry, he'd probably find her very attractive, with her artfully tousled curls and big dark eyes. "See, we thought we wouldn't be able to see the Olympics - we're on a gap year! But we knew it would cost the earth. But this guy in Moscow tipped us off about this club, and we figured, they'd be looking for English speakers to dance, and we could pay our way. But... okay. Maybe we got a little greedy."

"It was an impulse," Dave said, sadly. "Shouldn't have done it. But the drive was just - right there, and I couldn't resist..."

"Seriously," Becca sighed. "Although I guess we did get to meet you guys out of it. How did you find us, anyway?"

"We got a... friend to help us out with tracing the phone number you made the reservation with," Carey said.

"The - you made the reservation _with our phone number?_ " Becca said. Dave shrugged. "And they're - they're looking for you? For us?"

"Oh, shit," Dave said, and dropped his cup. PK withdrew his shoes from the spreading puddle of sugar. "We gotta get out of here!"

"Get the money! Get the laptop!" Becca shrieked, flying into the bedroom. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"I got it! Don't forget our jerseys, baby!"

"Uh," Carey said. "Look, I realise you're in a hurry - "

"They would murder us," Becca said, reappearing with a bulging backpack. "Look, I'm sorry, but you're famous, okay? They won't murder you."

"Becca," PK said, in his most reasonable voice, and she dropped a little black square on the table.

"There, you just need to give them that, okay? And sorry again!" 

And they were gone. They didn't even shut the door behind them. Carey sipped his Coke. PK picked up the flash drive.

"Well. Okay." He glanced around, and spotted the flatscreen TV. "You think that thing's got a USB port?"

It did. And the flash drive had pictures of, well. PK had a good memory for faces.

"Is that - "

"Head police guy," PK agreed. "What was his name? With, uh... friends, I guess." _Male_ friends. Wearing... spangles. "So when they said they were dancing at a club - " 

"Sochi has a gay scene," Carey said. PK turned from the screen to stare at him; it was a much nicer view anyway. "What? It was in the news."

"No wonder there were cops after us," PK said. "They must have been on-duty. We could have just told them all about it at the police station."

"Maybe we could just hand it in?" Carey said. "Wait. They did _say_ Lebedev, didn't they?"

"Actually, yeah. Shit. So..." PK scrubbed a hand over his head. If the cops were working for the mob guy, and not the police - chief, or whatever they called them here, that wasn't safe, and - "I'm not into outing this guy."

"Yeah. Or letting him be blackmailed. But I'm not into being shot, either. You think if we return this drive to him, he'll be able to get Lebedev off our backs?"

"Not sure what else we can do," PK said. "And he knows we're hockey players, not - weird blackmailing tourists, and he'll be able to tell people? Do you think they have actual conversations?" He only knew about the mob from movies, too. "So this club. You think Ovi - "

"We can't ask Ovi to get us into a gay club," Carey said.

"Right, and I don't know - I mean, I don't know if he'd keep this guy's secret. I don't know where Ovi stands, you know. Politically."

Carey picked up a matchbook and stared at it. The cover had the silhouette of an exaggerated female figure, and Cyrillic words under it.

PK had an idea. It was, honestly, not a great idea, but it had some perks and they were running pretty low on inspiration.

"Can you look around and see if you can find an address for the GPS for that place?" he said. "I'm just going to... check something out."

"What are you up to, PK?" Carey said, but he began to hunt around as PK headed into the bedroom.

"You know," PK called back, staring into the open bedroom closet. "I've often thought you should dress up as a sexy cowboy for me."

 

 

The door looked like most other doors in the back alley, but there was a man the size of Ben Bishop leaning up against the wall beside it. PK marched up, and made straight for the door; the Ben-alike put out a shovel-sized hand to stop him, and then looked him up and down before saying something in Russian.

"They told me they wanted English speakers," PK said. "I don't speak any Russian, big guy." 

"We're expected," Carey added from behind him, and waved his spangled lasso, which he had criticised roundly as useless for any serious rope work. "C'mon, it's cold out here."

At least Carey had a shirt. PK was too broad for all the slinky garments in that wardrobe, and had resorted to body glitter and PVC thong and chaps. He looked damn fine, but he was freezing.

The guy hesitated a moment longer, but they were _clearly_ strippers, so it was no surprise when they were let in. Any strip club would be grateful to have them on the premises.

Premises which proved to be reminiscent of some kind of movie bordello, all plush red velvet and gilding. It seemed less like a strip club and more like a dance club, men and women with skimpy clothes and drinks in hand grinding up against one another, though there were a few people dancing in gilded cages.

"So... upstairs, somewhere?" PK guessed, because he really couldn't picture the well-dressed men he'd seen at the restaurant in this mob. "Or... backstage?"

"Probably through that door with the guy who's armed," Carey said, and nodded towards the fancy red and gold steps, topped with a velvet rope and another huge goon. This one did have a gun, but PK figured he wasn't likely to use it, and set off with some confidence.

"We were sent for," he said with as much bravado as he could, which was, spoiler, a _lot_. The guy touched his ear - fuck, a headset, he was probably hearing - 

"Look up," he said, and jerked his head towards a camera. They both stared up at it in silence, and then the guard stepped aside and pulled the door open. "You're in."

Dashing good looks won the day again. The goon patted PK's ass on his way past. PK winked at him.

"You know," Carey said as they ascended a narrow spiral staircase, "It's an odd place to draw the line, but I'm not sure I like you flirting with the strip club's staff when you're in assless chaps."

"Didn't you once tell me all chaps were assless?"

"They are. But that's not the point."

"Carey. Baby. You are the only one for me." PK turned to give Carey the eyes, and was pleased to note he was smiling. "And if this goes wrong, well, I love you, okay?"

"Oh, that's encouraging," Carey said, and PK shot him fingerguns and turned back to the door at the top of the staircase. "Love you too, Subby."

This room was like being in a sexy, golden cocoon, filled with low thrumming music like a shimmering heartbeat. Gleaming tanned bodies of both sexes were everywhere, and Carey's pale skin and PK's dark both stood out.

There was an empty stage with a stripper pole in the middle of the room, crystal chandeliers hung so low Carey had to duck his head, glittering bead curtains cut off alcoves here and there, and PK gazed about, searching, trying to pick out a face. 

There. A curtain was pulled back by a sleek young man in a glittering Speedo, and PK spotted the man they were searching for. He headed determinedly in that direction, only to be headed off by yet another guard. This strip joint had better security than most hockey arenas.

"We're just - " PK began, and the guy shook his head, and pointed silently to the stage. "Well. Okay. Cares, I hope you can do something with that rope."

"I've roped bigger steers than you," Carey said, a smile suddenly lighting his face. He threw a loop of rope over PK's shoulders, and tugged him towards the stage. The glitter in the rope scratched against the glitter on his skin, but PK was rendered breathless by the look in Carey's eyes.

"Are you having _fun?_ " he hissed as he hopped up onto the stage, and Carey answered him by hooking an ankle round his and tipping him to the floor. PK _oofed_ and then yelped as both his ankles were looped up behind him and brought into startling proximity to his head. 

That only lasted a second before Carey loosened the rope and rolled him back to his knees, catching his arms up above his head and tying them swiftly to the pole. The rope slid about on the metal, and was probably flimsy enough PK could snap it, but all the same, being tied and displayed like that made his belly roil with heat.

Carey stepped in front of him, straddling his hips, and bent his knees until his crotch, in worn-thin denim, was right at eye-level. No, at mouth level. PK licked up lips, and looked up to see Carey looking back at him, eyes bright in the shadow of his cheap felt cowboy hat.

"You're kinkier than I thought," PK managed, and Carey grinned. His hips ground in time with the music, never making contact. "Seriously, Pricey - "

"Shh," Carey said. "Just look sexy." And he hooked his fingers into PK's mouth and tugged at the soft flesh of his cheek, stepping sideways so PK had to twist after him, wrists slipping against the pole. He had to look - stretched out, and sparkling in the low, golden light - Carey's wide dark eyes were fixed on his, and that was more important than the people staring at his body.

"Fuck," he breathed around Carey's fingers, and shivered. Funny, how you could date someone for years and they could still surprise you. 

Carey loosed the rope again, and PK let himself be moved and tied and tried not to just hump Carey's leg, or the stage, or the pole.

 

Sexy cowboys did it for everyone, looked like, because there were quite a few beckoning gestures made in their direction when PK stumbled down off the stage, dick aching in his too-tight thong.. Thank fuck, no one stopped them from getting to their guy, and PK sat down right in his lap, making him grunt. He looked up into PK's face, and his eyes widened and then narrowed.

"Yeah, hi," PK said. "Listen, we got mistaken for the Denisovs tonight."

PK would swear goosebumps rose on his skin at the chill that came into the air. He wondered if there were any guns in here, and decided that everyone was smart enough to know that shooting an Olympian in a cop's lap in a gay club would be way too much of a scandal. So he smiled, and patted the guy's cheek. What was his name, even? Ivanov? Or was that the judge?

"We're not the Denisovs," Carey added, and gently moved a young man so he could slide in next to them. "But some cops shot at us. It was upsetting, and we just want it to stop."

"We met the Denisovs," PK said, and Carey wiggled the flash drive out of his jeans pocket. The body under his grew very tense. "It's okay, dude, we're not - hey, we don't even care, right? We just want to play hockey and not get shot. The Denisovs skipped town, here's your drive, just call off your guys and we'll forget about it, okay?"

It seemed like a very long time before he nodded, and held out his hand for the drive.

 

Ovechkin never asked why they'd left a pair of PVC chaps and a cowboy hat in the back of his car.

**Author's Note:**

> kajiba, my apologies - I was well into writing this fic before I realised how much of Date Night's humour depends on the physical comedy and visuals, so this is less comedic than I hoped for. I hope you enjoy it anyway.


End file.
